In the evening.

She wanders (wonders) the city at night, not searching. Cobblestones click under her shoes. The sunset fades. Her ears drink up the flood of Spanish, lisping and delicioso, oddly sensual on even the plainest of lips. She’s content with it all—the autumn evening that sinks gentle teeth into her shoulders, the winding streets leading to places she’s never been, her belly replete with hierbas and huevos rotos. For now, the journey is everything. And she keeps wandering.